Shiver
by flamebrain
Summary: A chance meeting...and more. ff x-over West Wing


Title: Shiver  
  
Author: flamebrain  
  
Disclaimer: The West Wing belongs to Aaron Sorkin and NBC, et al. Profiler belongs to, y'know, I'm not sure, except that the creator left the show before it ended, NBC ran it, and CourtTV has syndication rights. I'm making no money off this story.  
  
Notes: Submission for first Wing Swing.  
  
Samantha Waters relaxed in the evening breeze from the Tidal Basin. She was sitting on a stone bench just inside the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial. Though from southern Maryland, she had never seen this memorial, since it had just recently been built.  
  
The Violent Crimes Task Force had just finished a case in Washington, D.C., and their boss, Agent Bailey Malone, had given the team the evening. They would return to Atlanta early the following morning. Sam had declined offers of company, and after giving restaurant advice to her co-workers, had headed down to the Tidal Basin. She'd stopped at the Roosevelt Memorial out of curiosity.  
  
It was quiet this evening. Though nice out, it wasn't yet tourist season, so visitors were few to this often forgotten memorial. It was a good place to think, Sam reflected, with the roar of the falls and quotations by FDR engraved into the stones. A good place to forget the hell her stalker had made her life, her worries about her daughter, and her resentment toward the bureaucrats who were making their jobs hell.  
  
A low voice interrupted her musing. "Nice place, isn't it?"  
  
Sam looked up into the eyes of a blonde. She noted the power suit, her training automatically making her evaluate this woman as she would a suspect. Power and elegance in every line, probably a politician, she decided. "Yes, it is. It wasn't built last time I was here. It's my first chance to visit."  
  
The woman sat next to her on the bench, her arm brushing Sam's as she placed a briefcase on the ground. "I come here often. It's a great place to think in the off season." She shuddered. "God, I hate tourist season."  
  
Sam grinned. "But the tourists help the economy."  
  
"I know. It's a bitch, isn't it?" The woman looked chagrined. "I'm sorry, I'm insulting you, aren't I? You're a tourist."  
  
"No, I'm in town on business," Sam explained quickly, not wanting to offend this woman. "I'm originally from this area."  
  
The woman nodded. "What kind of business?" she asked warily, as if suddenly uncertain as to whether she was talking to the enemy.  
  
"FBI."  
  
"Oh, a Fed," the woman said dismissively. "Aren't you supposed to wear black suits?"  
  
Sam reflexively smoothed down her jeans. "Only on duty," she grinned.  
  
"So, why is the Fed spending time at the FDR Memorial instead of at a bar with her colleagues?"  
  
Sam was beginning to get the rhythm for this woman's conversational changes. "Why is the politico not chatting up someone for campaign funds?" she countered.  
  
"Touché." The woman looked at her hands. "I suppose I didn't want to play the bad guy tonight."  
  
"You're the bad guy?" Sam queried lightly. "You don't look too awful." She openly appraised the woman sitting next to her, the artfully applied make-up, the deep red suit, and the long, slim legs.  
  
The woman flushed. "I'm a Republican. The President and his staff are Democrats. My guy wants to run against them in the next election. Therefore, I'm evil incarnate."  
  
"Of course," Sam mocked her gently. "How could I have not recognized you for the devil the instant we met?"  
  
"Let me guess, you voted for Bartlet."  
  
"Maybe, maybe not."  
  
"And you think it was just fine that he lied about being ill."  
  
"He never lied," Sam pointed out. "Not purposely. He didn't really break any laws. He just didn't divulge his illness."  
  
"Same difference."  
  
"Look where we're sitting." Sam gestured to the quote on the wall. "He lied to the American people. And we elected him to four terms."  
  
"He didn't lie," the woman argued.  
  
"Sure he did. Whenever he appeared in public, he stood. He used canes, but he was on his feet. He didn't tell the American public that he was in a wheelchair the majority of the time. It was an active cover up, as opposed to Bartlet's."  
  
"Bartlet is no Roosevelt," the woman snorted.  
  
"No, he's Bartlet." Lost in the passion of her explanation, Sam dropped a hand to the woman's knee. "He's not serving in war time, so he won't have the same chance to distinguish himself, but he may have a chance to better our society, to improve our children's education, to improve health care, and to get the guns out of our schools."  
  
The woman shivered under Sam's touch and covered her hand, stroking gently. "Let me guess," she murmured, her voice husky, "you're just like the babies in the West Wing. You want strict gun laws and wait limits of a year before someone can get a gun."  
  
"What's wrong with that?" Sam returned, turning her hand over and tangling her fingers with the woman's.  
  
"You're an FBI agent, you carry a gun. Of all people, you should understand the value of guns."  
  
"I hate guns," Sam said flatly. "People who use guns should have mandatory training in their use and safety. And I'd like to point out to those who argue that gunshot victims might be alive if they carried guns, that Bartlet was shot with some of the best marksmen in the nation surrounding him, and that I have armed guards around me 24/7, yet they still can't save me if Jack makes his move." She bit her lip. "Pretend you didn't hear that last part."  
  
The woman was gazing at her in frank admiration. "You're an FBI agent who hates guns. You're an enigma." She raised a hand to caress Sam's face.  
  
Sam leaned into the touch. "And you're a politician who hates Bartlet."  
  
"I don't hate Bartlet," the woman corrected. "I just want to beat him."  
  
"You want the White House," Sam murmured.  
  
"Doesn't everyone?" Her fingers twined in strands of Sam's hair.  
  
Sam moved closer to her companion. "Y'know, I still don't know your name," she murmured before lowering her lips to the stranger's.  
  
The woman smiled as she broke away. "Does it matter?" she asked rhetorically. "We've had an enjoyable conversation and forgotten about our miserable lives for an evening. You're not thinking about home, your family, or your job, and I'm not thinking about how I screwed over an old friend in a political maneuver, how people at my office hate me, and how my boss only keeps me around because he knows I'm better at his job than he is."  
  
"Well, I usually like to know the names of women I'm about to ask to bed," Sam whispered into her ear.  
  
She shivered. "Ann."  
  
"Sam," Sam murmured before kissing her once again.  
  
Mouths opened and tongues clashed in a struggle for dominance – one woman used to being in control, the other desperately needing some measure of it in a life where she often felt like a puppet.  
  
Sam moaned, her hands wandering down Ann's back. "Ann," she gasped as lips left hers and concentrated on her neck.  
  
Ann concentrated on the feel of the graceful neck beneath her lips, for once not using sex as a political maneuver. "I want you," she told the FBI agent. Her hands slid neatly beneath Sam's sweatshirt and up to her breasts. "No bra?"  
  
"Didn't feel like it," Sam managed. Bolts of heat spread across her body to meet where Ann's fingers were busy playing with her nipples.  
  
"Good. Faster this way," Ann said. She turned so she could straddle Sam's lap, her skirt bunched around her waist.  
  
Grateful for the nearly deserted area, Sam slowly moved her fingers up the silk of Ann's pantyhose toward her center.  
  
Ann was arching into Sam's touch when the quiet was shattered by a loud beep. "Not now," she groaned, her head dropping to the crook of Sam's neck.  
  
Sam sighed as Ann removed her fingers from her breasts and reached for her briefcase. She watched as the woman fished around for the pager. "Important?"  
  
Her question was answered by Ann reluctantly climbing off her lap.  
  
"My office," Ann explained. "I have to go." She looked at the agent. "I'm sorry we didn't get to finish what we started."  
  
"Me, too," Sam groaned.  
  
Ann caught the back of her neck and pulled her close for a quick, hard kiss. "It was nice to meet you, Sam of the FBI." She pulled a card from her briefcase. "If you're ever in D.C. again, give me a call." She turned and headed toward the parking lot.  
  
Sam listened as the sound of heels receded in the distance. When she could no longer hear Ann, she looked down at the card. "Ann Stark, Chief of Staff, Majority Leader's office," she read aloud. Slipping the card into her pocket, she closed her eyes and absorbed the scent and sound of Washington, D.C.  
  
It had been an interesting evening, and she knew when John and Bailey asked what she had done, she would tell them nothing, but when Grace asked, she would admit the truth. She had taken her friend's advice. Grace always advised her to take chances every once in a while, to act a little crazy. Tonight, she had been resting her spirit, healing in another soul as wounded as she, and reconnecting with her past. 


End file.
